The road stretched out like a scar across the landscape—long, cracked, endless.

Slade drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift, thumb tapping a silent rhythm against the leather. The radio crackled low, some old blues tune whispering through static, but mostly the truck was quiet.

She sat in the passenger seat, boots up on the dash, sunglasses hiding whatever thoughts drifted behind them. Her presence didn’t fill the space—it settled into it, the way silence between them always did. Comfortable. Charged. Unspoken.

They’d been driving for hours. Through nowhere towns and gas stations with flickering lights, through heavy skies and heavier thoughts neither of them wanted to say aloud.

The job had gone sideways. Blood, fire, and just enough chaos to make a clean exit feel like a blessing. Now they had a duffel bag full of cash, matching bruises, and nowhere to be for a while.

He glanced at her. She didn’t look back. Didn’t need to. She knew he was watching. He smirked faintly and turned his eyes back to the road.

No destination. Just them. The open highway. And a kind of peace he hadn’t earned—but was taking anyway.